


Ghost of you

by huffleluff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Derek Hale & Laura Hale Are Twins, F/F, Laura Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Light Angst, Lovers to Friends and Back to Lovers Again, Minor Derek Hale/Scott McCall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 11:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12275367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffleluff/pseuds/huffleluff
Summary: After two-thirds of their family is decimated by the fire, Laura knows she needs to be strong for her twin brother, Derek. When Derek begins to learn to learn to live with the tragedy, however, her world is turned on its head.Laura must learn to cope with loss and figure out how to trust again.





	Ghost of you

**Author's Note:**

> this is an amalgamation of several prompts for laura hale appreciation week. i wrote this...in much less time than i usually would, and the last 8.5k words or so were written over the last four days, so apologies for any weirdness and/or errors that you find in it. also, ngl, the angst got a little out of hand sooo sorry for that too.

Not everyone exposed to the same traumatic event reacts the same way. That’s what the matronly social worker had said to Laura over and over in the weeks following the fire that killed most of her family.

Laura repeats that sentence to herself as she watcheS the faces of her remaining family at the memorial service—reminds herself of it when Peter says the family business needs him to stay in New York for a few months, a single suitcase at his feet. When Cora announces that she had been accepted into a study away program in South America for her last two years of high school.

It is harder to accept the changes in Derek.

Even though Laura and Derek aren’t identical, it’s impossible to miss the fact that they’re twins. There’s the physical resemblance, of course—dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a prominent, straight nose. But it’s more than that, or at least, it used to be. They both take their coffee black. On family pizza nights, they’d order a large pizza with pineapple, bacon, and pickled jalapenos to share. Laura knows about Derek’s secret love of Jane Austen novels, and that he prefers the BBC version of  _ Pride and Prejudice _ . They used to be on the same wave length. Laura only had to look up across the room, and Derek would be looking back at her, smiling in shared understanding.

The fire took that away from them, and Laura is beginning to think they might never get it back. It has been almost a year since the fire, and when Laura looks at Derek, her brow furrowed in worry, he always seems to be staring off into the distance. They’d never gone longer than a day without talking before, and now it seems like weeks can pass without them ever saying anything more substantive than, “We’re out of milk, can you pick some up at the grocery store?”

The fire makes Derek quiet, withdrawn. He hunches his shoulders like he can’t bare to take up the physical space that he used to, and he flinches everytime he sees a blonde out of the corner of his eye, even though Kate Argent is in jail and will, with any luck, rot there until the end of time. He picks through his food and in during summer before they leave for college, he sometimes sleeps twelve or fourteen hours a day.

Laura doesn’t understand how he can sleep. Nervous energy thrums through her body, and it’s a thousand times worse at night, like maybe the remnant of her connection to Derek means that he can offload his anxiety onto her so he can sleep. She lies awake in her bed, her heart thrumming, until she can’t handle it any longer and she has to just get in the car and drive. The shadows under her eyes grow larger and darker, and there isn’t a back road in a fifty mile radius she doesn’t recognize.

~*~

Derek was the brainiac in the family, but Laura doesn’t say anything when she sees the acceptance letter to Brown at the top of the garbage can, or when they send out two deposit checks—courtesy of the sizable life insurance check that she doesn’t like to think about—to Beacon Hills University in March. She hadn’t liked the thought of Derek on the opposite coast, with miles of mountains and cities and farmland in between them, even before three quarters of their family had been decimated.

This is how Laura comes to be leaning on a doorframe in Mathis Hall, watching Derek shove his clothing into the little three-drawer pine dresser wedged underneath his bed. Like her room in Rhodes Hall, the dorm room is small, but neither of them have much—they’d lost almost everything in the fire.

“You can go unpack your room, Laura,” Derek says, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m fine.”

“I will,” Laura says, but she doesn’t make an attempt to move. “Are you going to be alright?”  _ Living with a stranger, _ she almost adds, but she bites her tongue. She doesn’t understand why Derek didn’t want to pay for a single. They have the insurance money. Now he’s going to be stuck with some weird Polish kid with an unpronounceable name.

“I’m  _ fine _ , Laura,” Derek says. It’s quiet for a second before he adds, “And don’t play the big sister card, either.” She can tell he’s trying to defuse the tension, but the familiar joke falls a little flat.

It’s awkward, more awkward than she thought it would be—leaving this room, going back to her sterile, bare dorm room, the walls so close together she can stand in the middle of the room, reach out, and touch them on both sides. She walks quickly over to Derek, squeezes his arm. Plants a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Eight minutes older, and I’ll never let you forget it,” she says softly, managing a small smile.

The moment is interrupted when three cardboard moving boxes, stacked one on top of the other, come barreling into the room. Laura can see jeans and tennis shoes below the boxes, and winces as the new arrival catches his foot on the corner of the desk, sending himself and all three boxes sliding across the floor with a yelp.

Getting a good look at the boy, Laura isn’t surprised that he tripped. He’s tall and gangly, with feet and hands too big for his body, hinting that he isn’t done growing yet. His hair sticks up in all directions, and he’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt, like it isn’t still summertime in California. He looks up at them and winces. “Uh—hi. I’m Stiles.”

Laura and Derek exchange looks, and for a second, the awkwardness between them is forgotten. Derek’s eyes are wide, like maybe he’s wondering what he got himself into after all. Laura snorts.

A second boy sticks his head through the doorway cautiously. He has a television in his hands. “Jesus Christ, Stiles.” This one is shorter, with light brown skin and a mop of dark hair that curls at the ends.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles mutters, sitting up.

“I’m Derek,” Derek says suddenly, looking at the boy who hovers in the doorway. “Are you, uh—”

“That’s Scott, he’s my best friend, his room is down at the end of the hall,” Stiles interrupts. “I’m Mieczyslaw—don’t even try and pronounce it, Stiles is easier. Scotty, you coming in?”

“You going to destroy anything else?” Scott mutters, but he walks in and drops the television on Stiles’s unmade bed.

Laura watches Derek, who watches Scott as he collapses onto one of the now-dented cardboard boxes. Stiles, who hadn’t bothered to stand back up after his fall, simply lays back down on the floor. “It’s too hot to unpack,” he moans. “Why couldn’t the school year start in October?”

“Then you’d have to pack everything up to go home in June,” Laura points out. “It’s not much better.”

Stiles starts, like maybe he hadn’t realized she was there. Derek is still carefully inspecting Scott, so Laura elbows him in the ribs.

“Ow,” Derek says, then—when Laura raises her arm to elbow him again— “Oh, uh, this is my sister. Laura.”

“Are you living in Mathis Hall too?” Scott asks politely.

“No, Rhodes,” Laura replies. And then, when Scott and Stiles don’t look like they’re moving any time soon to finish bringing in Stiles’s things, she adds. “I’d better get back there. Unpack, settle in.”

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise. Scott smiles at her. “Good luck,” he says.

Derek reaches out, gives her a one-armed hug. “I’ll be fine,” he says quietly, so only she can hear. “Go. Unpack.”

“Do you want to meet up later for dinner?” she asks.

Derek hesitates, looking over at Stiles and Scott. “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe they’ll want to—you know. Hang out.”

Laura personally thinks Stiles looks completely uninterested in interacting with anyone who isn’t Scott, but she can tell that’s the wrong thing to say. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll see you...around.”

Derek doesn’t respond. He grabs a hoodie out of his suitcase and shoves it into the dresser.

Laura backs out of the dorm room slowly, eyes burning.

~*~

Living cheek by jowl with one hundred and fifty odd eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds creates the sort of energy that’s almost palpable. There’s always people studying in the common areas, someone belting out Disney songs in the shared hall bathroom, or drunk girls stumbling through the staircases, their laughter echoing through the building. Once, inexplicably, Laura opened her dorm room on a Thursday night just in time to watch a fratty-looking freshman pedal down the hall on a unicycle, hoisting a set of bagpipes on his shoulder. She didn’t bother to question it, just took a second to thank God that he wasn’t actually  _ playing _ the bagpipes.

Paradoxically, the constant thrum of activity seems to help Laura sleep. She crashes onto the bed in her single in afternoons when her classes are over, and sometimes manages four or five hours of sleep before a sudden moment of stillness brings her abruptly into wakefulness. No matter how much she tries, she can never manage to fall back asleep after those moments. On the bright side, she might be the only freshman who doesn’t sleep through at least one eight-thirty class during the first two weeks of school.

There is one significant downside to her new sleeping schedule, however: by the time she wakes up at seven or seven-thirty in the evenings, the dining hall on the East Campus has stopped setting out fresh food, and what is left under the heating lamps is sad and wilting. Derek has already eaten—he goes to dinner at five with Scott and Stiles, right after Scott gets out of lacrosse practice. Laura’s joined them, once or twice, and she eats her dinner in silence, watching Derek watch Scott, and how the tips of Scott’s ears turn pink on the rare occasion Derek is bold enough to address him.

Stiles is oblivious, Laura thinks. He treats Derek with a good-natured sort of indifference, chattering on about his classes, Jackson Whittemore (some guy on their hall who, according to Stiles, is a total ass), and—the history of circumcision?

“I don’t know how you can sleep with him in the room,” Laura tells Derek one afternoon, when she’s managed to drag him away from Stiles and Scott long enough to get lunch at the Student Center. “Aren’t you afraid you’re going to wake up one morning and he’s going to have—I don’t know, set your textbooks on fire to cook some ramen?”

“He’s alright,” Derek says, his voice dry. “He doesn’t snore nearly as loudly as  _ some _ roommates I’ve had.”

Laura, who shared a bedroom with Derek until they were both fourteen, sticks her tongue out at him. After a minute, she adds, “I think you’re just too chickenshit to ask Scott to hang out  _ alooone _ .”

Derek ducks his head. With some shock, Laura realizes he’s blushing. “We’re going to a party this weekend,” he mutters.

Laura’s spoon clatters against her plate. “You’re—what? You’re going out with him? Without his shadow?”

“God, Laura,” Derek says. “Don’t be such a bitch.”

“I’m not!” Laura insists, even though she knows she kind of is. “I mean—good for you. Scott’s alright, I guess.”

“He’s—great,” Derek says softly. “He’s really great.”

“Don’t drink too much,” Laura says loftily. “Keep an eye on your drink. Make sure to use a cond—”

“Laura!”

~*~

Laura is well-acquainted with the library by the time her first essay is due—it’s the only building on campus that’s open 24/7. She takes her homework when she goes, but it’s more interesting to people-watch, to guess who’s going to be pulling an all-nighter and which couples are going to end up making out in the stacks. She doesn’t really visit the library during the day, except sometimes to take a cat nap between her two classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Tomorrow, though, her first essay is due in American Government, and she hasn’t really made much headway yet. She’s not too nervous about it—it’s only 9:30, and it’s not like she’d be sleeping tonight, anyways. Still, writing has never been her forte, and seeing her laptop and the books spread out on the table in front of her makes her a little nervous.

She’s two hours and about three-quarters of a page into the assignment when someone slides into the chair across from her. Laura looks up, startled.

Her first thought is that the girl in front of her is about to ask Laura to donate money to build schools for children in Haiti or something. She’s seen a lot of sorority girls sitting at tables in front of the library or the dining hall soliciting money for some cause or another. True, their tactics usually involve more banners and less accosting people trying desperately to write—but this girl still screams sorority.

She’s also maybe the prettiest girl Laura’s ever seen. She has long golden red hair that tumbles over her shoulders in loose curls and pale skin with the barest dusting of light freckles across her nose. Her large hazel eyes are framed with carefully darkened eyelashes, and her lips are a natural-looking pink. Still, it’s the way that she smells that really throws Laura off, like the carefully tended butterfly bush in the backyard of her old house. It reminds Laura of the summertime.

“Can I help you?” Laura asks, her voice squeaking.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” the girl says. Her smile is slow and warm. “You’ve spent the last half hour glaring at your computer. You have some pretty impressive eyebrows—I could tell you were scowling from the reference desk. I’m Lydia, by the way.”

“I’m Laura.” Laura looks over the girl’s shoulder. The reference desk is against the back wall, with a sign sitting on top that says  _ Back In 10 Minutes _ . “Oh, yeah, it’s just—” Laura shrugs one shoulder. “I’m working on my first Government essay of the semester. You know how it is.”

“Due tomorrow?” Lydia asks, looking amused.

“Yep,” Laura says, and sighs.

“Sounds like you have a long night ahead of you,” Lydia says.

“Unfortunately,” Laura replies. “A long, boring night.”

Lydia laughs. “So you’re not into politics, then? Or just not into essays?”

“Either,” Laura replied gloomily. “Although I’m not really sure—” she grabs a book and pushes it towards Lydia, “that  _ The Growth of the American Government from the Reconstruction through World War II _ really counts as politics.”

“I don’t know,” Lydia replied mildly. “People who lived during the Reconstruction and World War II might disagree with you.” She casually opens the book and looks at the description on the inside of the book jacket.

“Maybe,” Laura replies. Her cheeks feel hot—she doesn’t like feeling like maybe this gorgeous girl thinks she’s an idiot—but she adds defiantly, “I didn’t major in Landscape Architecture so I could write papers on dead cabinet members.”

One corner of Lydia’s mouth curves upward. “I guess not.”

“What are you majoring in?” Laura asks impulsively. “What year are you?”

“Sophomore. Mathematics,” Lydia says.

Laura blinks. “Okay. I was not expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?” Lydia asks.

“I don’t know.” Laura gestures at their surroundings. “Library science? Fashion design, maybe. The Growth of the American Government from the Reconstruction through World War II?”

“All worthwhile pursuits, I’m sure,” Lydia says dryly. “Well, I better let you get back to it. Good luck with the paper.” She pushes herself away from the table.

“Thanks. Bye,” Laura says. Watching Lydia walk back to the reference desk, she can’t help but take a second to appreciate Lydia’s legs, clad in mint-colored skinny jeans. She’s so goddamn  _ sexy _ that Laura thinks she might have been a hallucination, or possibly a mirage brought on by the flickering of the fluorescent light bulb over the table next to hers.

Laura doesn’t get much work done until Lydia packs up her bag and leaves just after one a.m., but she still somehow manages to finish the essay before class starts at 8:30.

~*~

Laura reclines on Derek’s bed, watching her brother fuss with his hair in the mirror. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a pastel pink dress shirt. Laura makes a face. The color is disturbing. A pink-and-green patterned bow tie lays crumpled on the desk next to him.

“I still don’t understand why you’re going,” Laura grumbles.

Derek looks at her coolly over his shoulder. “It’ll be fun, Laura.”

“It’s going to be lame!” she argues. “Freshman are the  _ only _ ones who actually  _ go _ to the homecoming dance!”

“So we should go this year, before it’s too late,” Derek says.

Laura points at him. “ _ That _ ,” she says vehemently, “is what Scott said to you to get you to go, isn’t it?”

Derek shrugs.

It’s Friday, in the middle of October, and the campus has been a hub of activity and energy all week. Chicken wire and colored tissue paper litter the lawn as the Greek organizations on campus compete to build the best float—the winner gets a $2000 donation to their charity of choice—and Laura is pretty sure the sorority girls have actually gotten less sleep this week than she has. Meanwhile, class attendance had taken a sharp dive by Thursday, and even Laura didn’t bother to show up to her American government class this morning. She’d passed three frat guys on a couch in the middle of campus, sipping God knows what from red Solo cups, on her way to the dining hall for lunch.

The football game tomorrow is something Laura understands, even though she’s not big on school spirit and their football team sucks. She’s pretty sure the entire student population will either be in the stadium sporting flasks or on the mall dumping mini bottles of rum into coke cans. That’s the kind of celebration she can get behind. But this—

“It’s not even like it’s  _ all _ freshmen,” she says, her voice perilously close to a whine. “It’s for  _ lame _ freshmen who haven’t figured out how to socialize outside school-sponsored events!”

“Sounds like you’d fit right in,” Derek mutters darkly.

Laura sits up. “I socialize!” she snaps.

Derek opens his mouth, then shuts it. His shoulders slump. Hesitantly, he approaches his bed, then hoists himself up onto it to sit next to her. After a second, he leans in to her and drapes an arm over her shoulder.

“Laura,” he says softly. “You haven’t done  _ anything _ since we got to college. No parties. No mandatory freshman social events. You don’t do anything with the people on your hall—”

“I went to their Disney movie night in Baker Hall!” Laura protests.

Derek just looks at her. “That was the second week of classes, Laura. You don’t ever eat with anyone in the dining hall, when you actually bother to go—”

“I eat with you!” Laura says, aghast.

Derek tightens his arm around her. “I’m your brother, your twin brother,” he says softly. “It doesn’t count.”

“ _ And _ Scott is there,  _ and _ Stiles,” Laura adds.

“My boyfriend and his best friend, neither of whom you actually like,” Derek says dryly.

“I like Scott,” Laura protests. Yes, she was worried when Derek first started dating him—with Derek’s dating history, who wouldn’t be?—but by now, even Laura could tell that Scott genuinely likes Derek. “And you don’t like Stiles, either.”

“He grows on you,” Derek says dryly.

“Like killer mold,” Laura mutters.

“That’s not the point. Laura, I’m worried about you.”

Laura jerks away from Derek. His arm falls away from her shoulders. Startled, unsure of what to say, all she can do is look at him.

Worried? Derek? About  _ her _ ? Yes, they’re twins, but for all intents and purposes, Laura has always been the older sister. Derek is sweet and sensitive, was prone to excessive clumsiness throughout his teenage years, and he’s someone who loves too hard and too easily. He  _ needs _ her to protect him. It is her fault that Kate—but that isn’t what they’re talking about right now. Right now, they’re talking about Derek and  _ worried about you _ and the role reversal leaves Laura reeling.

“I’m fine, Derek,” Laura says blankly.

“Are you?” Derek asks. “It’s not just that you never do anything, either. You’re still not sleeping—I can tell you aren’t, so don’t try to lie to me.”

“Half the student population won’t be sleeping next week when they remember they’ve got midterms,” Laura says. “I’m just getting the jump on them.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m serious, Laura.”

“So am I. There’s nothing wrong. You’re worrying about nothing.”

“Laura—”

Derek’s dorm room door flies open and Stiles, wearing a black dress shirt, black slacks, and silver tie, tumbles through. Laura scowls at Stiles, though her reaction is mostly due to habit—by this point in the semester, she’s used to his haphazard entrances. As always, Scott follows a couple of seconds behind his best friend. Like Derek, he’s wearing khakis. His button down shirt is pastel green, and he’s wearing a pink-and-green patterned bowtie.

“Hey Laura!” Scott says. “Hey Derek—you’re not wearing your bowtie!”

“I don’t think I’m made for bowties,” Derek grumbles.

“’Course you are,” Scott says amiably. “Where is it? Here, let me help you tie it.”

Laura watches as Scott fumbles with the bowtie while Stiles begins to mess around on his laptop. It takes a couple of tries—”It’s harder to do it from this angle. Shut up Stiles,” “I didn’t say anything!” “I could  _ hear _ you smirking,”—but Scott finally succeeds. Derek smiles down fondly at him.

“Gross,” Laura says suddenly, taking in Scott and Derek’s pink and green attire and matching bowties. “Did you guys seriously color coordinate?”

“Shut up, Laura,” Derek says.

Scott laughs. “Feeling left out?” he asks. “There’s still time! You can come with us, if you want.”

Laura thinks about the homecoming dance her freshman year of high school—she had worn an awful pink taffeta dress and her hair had been curled into ringlets—and shudders delicately. “No thanks,” she says. “I think I’ll leave the dances to you two lovebirds. And Sidekick McGee, of course.”

“Fuck off,” Stiles says without heat. Laura sticks her tongue out at him.

“He’s feeling a little sensitive about the whole third wheel thing,” Scott fake-whispers. “He tried to ask out a hot redhead at the library and she turned him down.”

Thinking about her own encounter with a hot redhead in the library, Laura flushes furiously. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she was  _ avoiding _ Lydia—she’s pretty sure you have to actually know someone before you can really avoid them—but she’s been staying off of that floor of the library at night, just in case. Not flunking American government this semester means studying, a lot, and that becomes a problem when all she wants to do is fantasize about a sexy reference desk worker who smells like flowers.

Stiles makes a face at Scott. “She was a strawberry blonde.”

“Whatever, dude,” Scott says. “Last chance, Laura. Think about all the non-alcoholic punch you’re missing out on.”

“It will be fun,” Derek adds, looking at her pointedly.

Laura hops off the bed, avoids his eyes. “Sorry, but I’m ditching you guys. I’ve got a hot date with Netflix,” she says, and saunters out of the room.

~*~

Originally, Laura’s plan for homecoming was to spend the weekend holed up in the library, but the hallway in her dorm room is strangely quiet—Laura thinks that some of the girls might have left their rooms Thursday night with no plans to return until Sunday—and it makes her skin itch. The library is also deserted, but at least it’s quietness is characteristic. She misses the sounds of pages turning and frantic typic and the general atmosphere of thinly veiled panic, but there’s no competition for the squishiest armchairs. Laura manages to fall asleep sometime around five a.m. Saturday morning and sleeps until almost ten.

She’s feeling relatively well-rested, and maybe that’s why she reconsiders Derek’s words from the night before. She still thinks he’s overreacting, but maybe—probably—this weird new side of Derek that fusses over her sleep schedule and her social life is just another byproduct of the fire. So, in the interest of having something to defend herself with the next time he gets touchy-feely, Laura decides to go out.

She swings by her dorm room and swaps out her sweatpants for skinny jeans, but leaves her BHU t-shirt on. Homecoming is about school spirit, right? She grabs a sweatshirt and her phone, about to text Derek, but hesitates. Was he serious when he said that hanging out with him didn’t count as socialization? They’d both had people who they were friendly with in high school, people they went shopping or hit up arcades with, but none of those casual acquaintanceships came close to the friendship that they’d had with one another.

Derek had dated Paige, of course, and there was the whole fucked up Kate Argent situation. But Laura had never dated anyone, even after she’d came out as a lesbian. Their high school had been big enough to have an active little GSA, but she’d never really clicked with any of the girls there.

Maybe she was just antisocial by nature, she thinks, but no one had ever noticed before the fire because it was damn near impossible to get any alone time when you have 12 people living under the same roof.

Hardening her resolve, Laura drops her cell phone into her pocket. She will let Scott and Derek have their alone time, assuming Stiles isn’t still tagging along with them. She’ll wander around the mall, and see if she can find any of the other girls who live on her hall.

The mall is packed with tents and awnings and people. Students and alumni are lounging in lawn chairs and on blankets spread on the ground and the occasional crappy couch that some frat guys had purchased used for the sole purpose of tailgating. The parking lot adjacent to the mall is just as full. It seems like every group of people has their own speakers set up, and the music—mostly either Top 40 or country—runs together as Laura walks down the mall. People play cornhole and flip cup, cook over grills, and barely bother to disguise the fact that they’re drinking in the middle of campus.

It takes her nearly half an hour, but she does finally find a couple of familiar faces—Kira and Allison, who live in the room near the communal kitchen on her hall, are sitting on lawn chairs under a large BHU awning. There’s a handful of other people in the general vicinity, but not too many, and when Laura catches Kira’s eye and waves hesitantly, Kira beckons her over.

“Laura!” Kira shouts. “It’s so good to see you! Isn’t this great?”

“It’s something,” Laura says laconically.

Kira laughs. “I feel like I’m in a college movie!”   
  


“If we were in a college movie,” Allison says, raising her voice, “someone would bring Laura a drink!”

“You hear that, Jackson?” A somewhat familiar voice calls from behind Laura. “Laura needs a drink.”

Flushing, Laura turns around slowly. Sure enough, she recognizes the redhead standing directly behind her, a water bottle full of pink liquid in one hand: Lydia. Even though it’s October, she’s wearing tiny denim shorts and a BHU t-shirt that she’s cropped so it barely covers her breasts. Her stomach is painted maroon, with yellow text that reads “BHU!” and she has the school emblem done up in rhinestones on one cheek.

“Hey, Lyds,” Allison says, sounding surprised. “You know one another?”

“We’ve met,” Lydia says, smiling at Laura. “How’d the paper turn out?”

“I got a B minus,” Laura says stiffly.

Lydia makes a noncommittal noise. “Not bad, for your first college essay.”

“Oh, don’t gloat, Lydia,” Kira says, and sighs. “Lydia is a genius, Laura. It’s very unfair to the rest of us.”

“I figured as much,” Laura says. When Lydia raises an eyebrow at her, she adds, “They only let geniuses major in math, right?”

“Tell that to some of my classmates,” Lydia says dryly. Then, sounding a little uncomfortable: “I didn’t mean to come across as bitchy.”

“You didn’t,” Laura says.   
  


“If you ever want company while you’re studying—” Lydia begins.

“Hey, Lyds!” A ripped dude with a ridiculous jawline strolls over. He presses a cold can of Miller Lite into Laura’s hand, barely looking at her, then gives Lydia a half-armed hug. “They let you out of the library?”

Looking at his arm around Lydia, Laura scowls. She should have guessed that a girl like Lydia would have a boyfriend that thought wearing socks with Nike sandals was the epitome of style. She pops the top on the Miller Lite and takes a cautious sip. It tastes like crap.

“I’m a social creature. They have to let me out sometime,” Lydia says, sidling away from Muscular McDouchebag. “Laura, I’m sorry to say that you have accidentally walked in on my unofficial high school reunion. This is my ex, Jackson.”

Laura takes another sip of the beer. “Nice to meet you,” she says grudgingly.

“Yeah, you too,” Jackson says, looking furtively back and forth between Laura and Lydia. “So...do you guys want to play flip cup?”

~*~

Laura decides three beers in that the Miller Lite doesn’t taste  _ that _ bad, but she’s still not a fan. Still, she feels pleasantly warm—she’s beginning to realize why everyone is in shorts and tanktops—and there are worse ways to spend a Saturday. She’s sitting in a lawnchair in the shade, lazily watching the people walk up and down the mall, when Lydia plops onto the ground next to her.

“Having fun?” Lydia asks.

“It’s not so bad,” Laura replies. “Why do you work in the library if you’re majoring in mathematics?”

Lydia shrugs. “I like research. I like books. It’s slightly less tedious than working at Victoria’s Secret, which is what I do during the summers. Plus, I get the chance to meet grouchy girls who hate American politics.”

“Hate is a strong word. And I’m not grouchy—it’s just the eyebrows. It’s a family curse.” Derek would call her out for lying if he were here, but right now, all Laura wants is for this smart, sexy girl to—what? Be her new best friend? Paint her toe nails? Rest her head on Laura’s thigh, so she can run her fingers through the increasingly disheveled bun that Lydia had wrestled the golden red waves into?

Yes, Laura thinks, she really wants that last one. She scowls.

“See?” Lydia reaches up and taps Laura’s forehead with one delicate, manicured fingernail. “Grouchy. It’s probably the lack of sleep.”

“I am  _ not _ grouchy,” Laura growls, which makes Lydia dissolve into laughter. Laura can’t help but smile at that, a little. Lydia looks bright and sweet when she laughs.

“What makes you think I don’t get enough sleep?” Laura asks, once Lydia’s giggles have quieted.

Lydia smiles. “Honey, I have never seen someone with circles that dark. You need to stick some cucumbers on your eyes.”

“Thanks,” Laura says sarcastically. “I appreciate the advice.”

“Don’t worry,” Lydia says, getting to her feet. “They give you a sexy, dangerous workaholic kind of look. Like an FBI agent. Or a vigilante superheroine, bent on revenge.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Laura says.

“It was meant as one,” Lydia replies with a smirk.

Laura’s still mulling over that comment when Lydia asks, “Are you going to the football game with us? Kickoff’s in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m not really an organized sports person.” Laura hesitates, then asks, “Will you be in the library next week?”

“Midterms,” Lydia says with a sigh. “I’ll be lucky if I have a chance to leave long enough to eat. I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” Laura says. “I’ll see you.”

~*~

She can’t go to the library, Laura realizes Monday evening, feeling a wave of panic rise up over her. It’s not like they made a  _ date _ . In fact, their conversation was so vague that Lydia was probably brushing her off, and Laura just hadn’t realized it because she was drunk. If she shows up at the library now, Lydia will think she’s some kind of creepy stalker. God, she’s probably straight. Laura groans.

The problem is, she has a paper due in two days, and she  _ really _ needs to go to the library, Lydia or no Lydia. Her insomnia-slash-anxiety has permeated the dorm room and it makes it impossible to write in here, like her inability to sleep has overflowed into an inability to do anything else she ought to be doing.

Laura tries going to McElwin Hall—it’s the closest building to her dorm, and one of the only ones that freshmen have access to after 11:00pm—but half the classrooms have study groups in them, and the other half are filled with burnt out upperclassmen using the projectors to watch movies. Growling, she tries Johns Hall, but it’s just as packed. Feeling a little desperate, Laura trudges over to Derek’s dorm room.

Stiles answers when she knocks. Laura makes a face. “Is Derek here?” she asks.

“No,” Stiles says. “I think him and Scott went somewhere to study.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s very productive,” Laura says sarcastically. “There’s a lot of studying going on, I’m sure.”

Stiles snorts. “Hey, I’m just glad they’re not ‘studying _ ’ _ in the room,” he says, emphasizing his point with air quotes . “I have papers due, and even when they’re not making out—which,  _ ugh _ —they’re exuding enough puppy love to make me nauseous.”

Laura sighs. “That’s Derek,” she says. “He doesn’t do things in halves.”

Stiles grins. “Scott either. I mean, I love the guy. We’ve been best friends since the womb. But man. I still remember his first big crush, back in sophomore year of high school. There was poetry. And pining, lots of pining.”

“Well, it sounds like they’re a match made in heaven,” Laura says.

“It sure seems like it,” Stiles says. “Honestly, I’m happy for Scott. Even if they’re going to give me cavities from proximity alone.”

“Me too,” Laura says. “Derek—” she hesitates, not sure what she should say. “Derek has a problem with falling for people who hurt him. I’m glad he’s dating someone who’s nice, for a change.”

“And you’ll kill anyone who hurts your baby brother, blah blah blah,” Stiles says, breaking her moment of introspection. “Save it for Scott. Do you want to come in? I desperately need a break from this paper.”

“I desperately need to  _ start _ this paper,” Laura says.

“It’s still early,” Stiles assures her. “It’s barely even ten.”

“Great,” Laura mutters, but she follows Stiles into the dorm room.

She’s never been alone with Stiles before, and she isn’t exactly looking forward to it now. If Derek was out with Scott, the likelihood that he’ll be back any time soon seems slim. Still, it isn’t like she has anywhere else to go. Laura climbs on top of Derek’s bed and takes her laptop out of her bookbag, hoping that Stiles will take a hint.

He doesn’t. He rambles on about his classes and his paper—a history of circumcision, though Laura isn’t really sure what that has to do with economics—while Laura stares at a blank word document. Still, after ten or fifteen minutes of moaning about midterms, Stiles finally returns to his paper, leaving Laura in glorious silence.

She types her name and the date at the top of the page, then hits the enter key a couple of times. She changes the font from Calibri to Times New Roman, then to Papyrus and back again. Her phone buzzes—it’s just junk email—and she spends a couple of minutes scrolling through her Instagram feed. A couple of girls she knew in high school have posted pictures of a bonfire party. Cora posted a picture of a waterfall system in Argentina. Laura’s breath hitches. She tosses her phone aside and grabs her government textbook and begins to skim through the most recent chapters.

An hour and a half later, she’s actually managed to write a couple of paragraphs and she rewards herself by lying back on Derek’s bed. It takes her a minute to realize she’s being stared at. Laura flops over onto her side to look back at Stiles. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“Oh, no,” Stiles says. “I’m just impressed, is all. It’s not often that I find someone who’s just as adept at procrastinating as I am.”

Laura snorts. “Half the people on this campus are procrastinating at this very moment,” she replies.

Stiles grins. “I doubt they’re doing it as aggressively as you are,” he says.

“I’ve heard you typing over there,” Laura argues. “It doesn’t  _ sound _ like you’re procrastinating.”

“It’s the ADHD,” Stiles replies breezily. “It occasionally grants me the gift of hyperfocus. Of course, my paper is only marginally related to the prompt, but whatever, it’s interesting.” He waves his hand. “My point stands—you look like you’d rather eat glass than work on that paper.”

“It’s my American Government class,” Laura grumbles. “I hate it. All I want to do is—I don’t know. Plant flowers. Design gardens. Whatever. What do I need American Government for? And it doesn’t help that I’m  _ here _ , instead of, you know, in the library.”

“Ah, so you’re one of those ‘I can only focus in the library’ types,” Stiles says. “Which raises the question—why are you here waiting for Derek?”

Laura sighs and rolls back over, so she’s not looking at Stiles. She picks up her textbook again, flips through it mindlessly. She tries to sneak a look back at Stiles. He’s still looking at her.

“I can see what you mean about hyperfocus,” Laura grumbles.

“Smells like avoidance,” Stiles replies.

Laura growls at him, like she used to do to Derek when he was being particularly annoying. “It’s not avoidance!”

“Spill or leave,” Stiles says.

“It’s just—” Laura throws her hands up in the air. “There’s this super hot girl at the library, and I don’t know if she’s interested, or if she’s even into girls, and I have no fucking idea what to do.”

“Oh. Well.” Stiles blinks. “That was not what I was expecting.”

Laura glares at him. “What  _ were _ you expecting?” she asks acidly.   
  


Stiles puts his hands up. “Woah there, I was just implying that you’re a huge hermit. I was completely aware that you like girls. I mean, you’re basically Lesbian Barbie.” He gestures in her general proximity, as if that’s supposed to be some kind of explanation.

Laura looks down at her plaid shirt. “Boys,” Laura says, and sniffs. “So do you have any useful advice, or what?”

“Oh, no,” Stiles says quickly. “I just wanted to know what was going on. I don’t do romantic advice. I mean, look at me. Ordering my coffee from the same barista every morning senior year of high school is, like, the full extent of my relationship experience. But, I guess—” he shrugs, “talk to her, maybe?”

Laura throws a pillow at his head. “Thanks, Captain Obvious. And what exactly am I supposed to do after that?”

“Netflix and chill,” Stiles replies sagely.

Laura groans.

~*~

At nine p.m. the next night, Laura heads to the library. Her essay is nearly halfway done, but she has to finish it before the next morning, and she can’t exactly spend another night camped out in Derek’s dorm. For one, Derek is in bed with a cold and Scott is there feeding him chicken noodle soup. And though Laura has to admit, grudgingly, that Stiles isn’t so bad, she still knows a lot more about circumcision than she ever wanted to.

So Laura, armed with two pumpkin spice lattes, climbs the steps into the library. She doesn’t necessarily have to  _ talk _ to Lydia, she reassures herself. She could just find somewhere to write her essay. Wait, and see if Lydia comes to her.

And do what, exactly, with the two cups of coffee she’s holding?

Laura blows a lock of hair out of her face.  _ Calm down, stupid. You can do this.  _ Clenching her teeth so hard her jaw creaks in protest, Laura marches up two flights of stairs and to the reference desk—

—and stares blankly at the dark-haired guy sitting at the desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard of the computer, obviously working on his own classwork. There’s a sign, printed on neon pink paper, taped onto the front of the desk that reads, “NO FOOD OR DRINKS IN THE LIBRARY.”   
  


“Can I help you?” the guy asks, clearly annoyed.

“I, uh—” Laura hesitates, not sure she wants to bring up Lydia’s name. Reference desk guy is eying the Starbucks cups.

“Looking for me?”

Laura turns around. Lydia is standing behind her, smiling, her bookbag over her shoulder. She’s wearing black leggings and a baggy sweatshirt. A few strands of hair have escaped the clip securing them to the top of her head.

“Hey, Lydia,” Laura says. “Are you, um, working?”

“No, I’m off tonight,” Lydia says.

Laura shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Oh, well. I won’t bother you then. I’m sure you want to get out of here.”

“I just got here,” Lydia says, gesturing to her bookbag. “Midterms and all.”

“Oh. Cool,” Laura replies. “Did you—uh—I brought you this.” She holds out one of the pumpkin spice lattes.

Lydia takes the cup and beams at Laura. “Excellent. Coffee. Just what I need at nine o’clock the night before my vector calculus exam,” she says. “Did you want to find a table?”

~*~

It’s nearly three a.m., but the library is just as packed as it was when Laura first got there. She and Lydia had given up on finding an empty table, but by some small miracle had managed to find two empty armchairs. Admittedly, the armchairs hadn’t exactly been next to one another—Laura had been on the receiving end of several nasty looks as she dragged one into an elevator and across the library floor. She had hesitated, but ultimately decided to situate the chair so that it was right next to the one Lydia had taken up residence in, the arms of the chairs pressed together.

Wearily, Laura types up a couple of sentences for the conclusion of her paper. Her back hurts from sitting ramrod straight in the chair. Meanwhile, Lydia is sprawled out over hers, and has been since about half an hour into their study session. Her legs are draped over one arm of the chair and her head is leaned back against the other. Her hair has half-fallen out of the clip anchoring it to the top of her head, and every few minutes, Laura gets a whiff of her floral shampoo.

She should move, should pack up her things and go back to her dorm room and try to catch a couple hours of sleep before class starts. She’s still got the midterm for her design class later this week, and she’d promised to meet up with Derek and Scott tomorrow—tonight—whenever—for dinner.

Laura doesn’t realize she’s been staring at Lydia’s notes, at her precise and elegant handwriting, until Lydia asks, “You done?”

“More or less,” Laura replies hoarsely. “How are you doing?”

“I’m feeling pretty good about it,” Lydia says. She stretches, pointing her toes and reaching her arms out over her head, so that they drape across Laura’s lap.

“Are you going to go back to your dorm room and catch some sleep?” Laura asks.

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Laura huffs. “Why do you always bring up my sleep schedule?” she complains.

“I’m not sure you can call it a sleep schedule if you never actually sleep,” Lydia says.

“I sleep,” Laura replies.

“I totally believe you,” Lydia says. “You know, slow-wave sleep is very important for your semantic memory.”

“The fact that you know that just tells me that you get too much slow-wave sleep,” Laura retorts. “Kira was right. You are a know-it-all.”

Lydia laughs. “Maybe she’s right.” She sits up, swinging her legs off the arm of the chair, then leans over the arm of Laura’s chair, so she can look straight at her. “Hey, you want to know something I don’t know?”

“What?” Laura asks.

Lydia flutters her eyelashes. “Your number.”

Laura stares at Lydia.  _ That _ was a pickup line, she’s sure of it, but it still takes a second for her to decide that Lydia isn’t kidding. Laura’s hair is a mess and her teeth feel fuzzy from drinking the too-sweet coffee and she’s pretty sure she didn’t bother to reapply her deoderant before she decided to camp out in the library for six hours. Meanwhile, in spite of the leggings—or maybe because of them—Lydia looks like some kind of modern goddess of libraries and all-nighters.

Laura has to fight off a sudden wave a panic. There’s a part of her, and it’s not a small part, that wants to say, “Oh no, sorry, I dropped my phone in the toilet this morning, probably won’t have a new one for a couple of weeks,” and then get the fuck out of there.

Lydia’s smile grows dimmer the longer Laura is silent. She thinks about Derek saying  _ I’m worried _ and Stiles saying  _ Just talk to her _ , but she also hears Peter saying  _ I’ve got to go to New York _ and Cora saying  _ I’m leaving for Argentina in a few weeks _ and, further back, her mother:  _ Laura, you know we’ll always love you, no matter what. We just want you to be happy.  _ She doesn’t know what to do sometimes, with all these people inside her brain—she can barely hear herself think.

“Here, give me your phone,” Laura says. When Lydia passes it to Laura, their fingertips brush against one another, and Laura’s hand twitches at the sudden sensation of electricity between their skin. The hair on Laura’s neck stands on end.

She types in her phone number, and saves it under her name plus a purple flower emoji.

~*~

“So are you dating?” Stiles asks.

It’s Saturday night, a couple of weeks after midterms, and they’ve all made it through with passing grades. Well, mostly—Stiles had a meeting with his economics professor earlier this week, who had told him to redo the assigned and  _ please, for the love of God, Stilinski, stick to the damn topic this time! _ “It was technically a great paper, though,” Stiles had told her smugly. Laura had snorted.

Now, she, Stiles, and Derek are sprawled out on the floor of their dorm room. They’re only missing Scott, who went home for the weekend to help his old boss out with a fundraiser at the animal shelter. There’s a fifth of Fireball and a half-empty two liter of 7-Up on the floor next to Derek. Laura made a face when he had handed her the first cup, but it isn’t the worst thing she’s seen freshmen drink.

She takes a long sip now. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “I think we’re just—hanging out. We haven’t kissed yet.”

“And—no offense—you’re sure she’s into girls?” Derek asks skeptically.

“I’m like ninety-five—well, like eighty percent sure,” Laura says. “She definitely flirts with me.  _ Definitely _ . I think we’re just, you know. Taking it slow.”

“Yeah, Derek,” Stiles says amicably. “Not everyone’s a huge man-slut like you.”

Laura gives Stiles a nasty look, but Derek just laughs. It’s the sort of comment that would have made him shut down just a couple of months ago. “Hey, you’re the only one having casual sex here, Stilinski. Where is Malia, by the way?”

“Out terrorizing other freshman boys, I presume,” Stiles replies airly. “I didn’t think you would appreciate her being here, Laura. Her idea of relationship advice revolves exclusively around sex and food. Sometimes at the same time.”

“Gross,” Laura grumbles.

“To each his own,” Stiles replies. “So what are you doing, since you’re not dating?”

“Homework, mostly,” Laura admits. “I hang out in the library with her while she works sometimes. We’re watching Numb3rs on Netflix. Um. I made her dinner once?”

“In the dorm?” Derek asks, surprised.

Laura shrugs. “It was just breakfast for dinner,” she mutters.

Derek nudges her with his foot. “Laura’s famous breakfast for dinner,” he says softly. “We haven’t had it since—well, it’s been a while. And made with a hotplate and a toaster oven, no less. You must like her.”

“The hall kitchen has a real stove,” Laura says defensively.

“Eggs,” Stiles scoffs. “ _ Bo _ -ring. Let’s have a Hale twins pow wow when you introduce whipped cream into your relationship. Does anyone want to play Kings?”

Which is how Stiles ends up passed out a couple of hours later, while Laura and Derek sit shoulder-to-shoulder on Derek’s bed. It’s a little after three, and Laura’s brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, and she’s considering heading home and marathoning Extreme Homes until she can finally fall asleep when Derek says, “Laura?”

“Yeah, Der-Bear?” she says.

He elbows her gently over the use of the childhood nickname. “How are you sleeping?” he asks. “Has it gotten any better? Recently?”

“Wow, two heart-to-hearts in less than a month,” Laura says sarcastically. “Look who thinks he’s in a place to be giving advice on being a functioning, emotionally stable adult.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Derek replies.

Laura shrugs.

“Well, I’m happy you’re at least—making friends. Dating. Getting out of your dorm room. Whatever,” Derek says. “Although—are you going to tell Lydia?”

“Why would I?” Laura asks, appalled. “You didn’t tell Scott!”

“Actually, I did,” Derek says. He puts his hand over Laura’s. “That’s what people in relationships do, Laura. They share things with each other.”

“Well, you would know,” Laura grumbles. She feels a little bad for saying it—he and Paige had barely started dating when she had died. And Kate Argent—well, they both saw how that had ended. But still, can’t he see that she doesn’t want to  _ talk _ about it? Even the thought of  _ Derek _ talking to  _ Scott _ about what had happened makes her nauseous.

_ Did he tell Scott I should have known?  _ she thinks, feeling lost and scared and desperate.  _ Did he tell Scott I could have stopped it? _

~*~

Laura needs time to think so she just—she stops. Stops going to the library, stops hanging out with her brother and his friends, stops texting Lydia back. It’s not like they’re dating, Laura reasons. And it’s just for a couple of days, so it’s not really ghosting. Just long enough for Laura to figure out how to tell Lydia that she’s just not really cut out for—relationships. Friendships. Whatever.

Laura knows by now that Lydia is smart and resourceful and not a little bit stubborn, especially when she wants something. Somehow, though, she didn’t think to take that into account when formulating her plan.

Which is why Laura is so surprised to find Lydia outside of her door.

“Hey. What’s up?” Lydia asks. She’s sitting cross-legged in the hallway, a textbook open in her lap. Though her words are friendly enough, Laura sees a mixture of worry and anger in Lydia’s eyes that makes her pulse speed up.

“Um. Not...much?” Laura replies. She holds up the paper bag of food that she had left campus to get. “Do you want...doughnut holes?”

Lydia huffs. “You better  _ believe _ that you are going to tell me what is going on with you,” she says threateningly. She gets to her feet, grabs the paper bag out of Laura’s hand, then stands, arms crossed, next to Laura’s door. It’s obvious that she’s waiting for Laura to unlock the door.

Laura does so, muttering, “By all means, come in.”

“I will, thanks,” Lydia replies, her voice heated. She follows Laura into the room, shutting the door behind her with slightly more force than necessary. She drops the bag of doughnut holes on Laura’s dresser and then hoists herself up onto Laura’s bed. She looks at Laura expectantly.

“Um. Well. How was your weekend?” Laura asks.

“Fine,” Lydia replies. There’s a long pause.

“How’s vector calculus?” Laura tries again.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Come on, Laura.”

“What?” Laura asks, her voice defensive.

“You know what!” Lydia snaps. “We’ve been talking or hanging out basically every day, and suddenly you decide you can just—not answer my texts! Ignore my calls! I haven’t heard from you in three damn days! You could have been—I don’t know! Dead in a ditch somewhere!”

“Overreact much?” Laura snaps back. Then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. This is exactly what she  _ didn’t _ want. “Look, Lyds, I just needed some time.”

“You should have told me,” Lydia says darkly.

Laura sighs. “Probably,” she admits. “But, look—this is what I mean, see? I’m shit at this—sort of thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lydia demands.

“It means—” Laura throws her hands up, exasperated. “I don’t know! I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“I want you to tell me the truth,” Lydia replied. “Laura, look,” her voices cracks, “We’re friends, right?”

Laura hesitates. She’s losing control of the conversation, she knows she is, but— “Yeah,” she says softly. “We’re friends.”

“And—you like me?” Lydia says, sounding unsure. “I mean—you’re, well, you’re funny and fierce and I never know what you’re thinking. And—God, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. But if you don’t—don’t feel the same way—”

Laura looks at her, and there’s something in Lydia’s eyes that overwhelms her. Lydia is  _ scared _ , Laura realizes, and the realization is like an out-of-body experience. She’s afraid, because she’s opened up to other women before and been rejected, and what the  _ fuck _ is Laura supposed to do now?

“Jesus, Lydia,” Laura says, her voice raw. She runs a hand through her hair. “It’s not that. It’s not  _ like _ that. Of course I like you, you’re...perfect. All I can think about sometimes is the way you smile, or the way you smell… God.”

“Then why?” Lydia asks, her voice still vulnerable.

Laura sighs. She crosses the room and crawls up onto the bed, so she can sit next to Lydia without looking at her. “Look, there’s—there’s something I haven’t told you. Something...important, I guess.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Lydia finally asks, “Is it—does it have something to do with how you never sleep?”

Laura smiles, though it’s a little watery. “You’re obsessed with me sleeping. You know that, right?”

Lydia laughs. It’s soft and breathy.

“But—yeah, I guess it does,” Laura says.

“I knew it was something,” Lydia says softly. “I mean, you never talk about your family, other than Derek. And you’re so—hyper aware, all the time. I figured—something. I was going to take everything really slow, you know, so I wouldn’t freak you out.” She snorts. “And then you dropped off the face of the fucking planet, and I guess  _ I _ freaked out a little. But—you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Laura says. It’s not entirely true, but Derek had said she should, right? And it’s not like this is a fucking therapy session, for God’s sake.  _ Just like a bandaid, _ she thinks.

“Some homicidal blonde pyro burnt our house to the ground and killed half my family.”

Saying it—she feels like she’s someone else, or somewhere else, or maybe like she’s still Laura Hale, still in her dorm room, but in some alternate dimension where this conversation never happens. Her voice sounds far away and foreign.

“God,” Lydia says. Laura hears a soft  _ thump! _ as Lydia leans-slash-falls back against the cinderblock wall, forcing the air out of her lungs in a short, harsh sigh. “God,” she repeats.

“Yeah,” Laura agrees.

“Was she,” Lydia hesitates, “—someone you knew?”

Laura understands what Lydia isn’t saying. “You mean, was she my girlfriend?” Laura laughs a little hysterically. “God, no. I didn’t know her from Eve before they arrested her.”

And that was the root of the problem, wasn’t it? Derek was seeing a woman ten years his senior with the temperament of a rabid snake, and Laura—his sister, his twin— _ didn’t know _ .

“Do you want me to go?” Lydia asks softly, her voice strained.

“God, no,” Laura replies.

Moving slowly, like she’s afraid Laura might run, Lydia turns her upper body slightly so she’s facing Laura and reaches out to cradle Laura’s face in one hand. Her skin is as cool as dew and silky soft. Laura can feel the jump of the pulse in Lydia’s wrist where it lays against Laura’s cheek. Laura shudders slightly. Lydia’s eyelashes flutter as she closes her eyes.

Carefully, Laura leans in and presses her lips to Lydia’s temple, then to her mouth. Lydia’s lips part slightly as she sighs. Her breath is wet and somehow sweet. Laura kisses her once again, brushing her lips against Lydia’s perfectly full bottom lip, and draws back.

They rearrange themselves in the bed. They’re both still fully clothed—Lydia in a wispy dress that rides up her perfect thighs and stockings that now have a run in one knee, Laura in skinny jeans and a collared shirt—but they make it work. Laura’s spooning Lydia, sort of, with her face buried in the redhead’s hair, and they’ve got a laptop balanced on Lydia’s hip so they can watch Netflix. It’s not very late yet, not by her standards, but Laura feels tired, so fucking tired—

She falls asleep.

—-

The sunlight creeping in through her broken blinds turns the inside of her eyelids red. Laura jerks awake.

It takes her a couple of seconds to realize that she’s in her own dorm, her own bed. It’s been nearly three months since she moved in, but this morning, the cinderblock walls seem suddenly unfamiliar. It only takes half a second longer to place Lydia, who’s propped up on one elbow, watching her.

“So, you  _ do _ sleep,” Lydia says.

“Sometimes,” Laura croaks. She doesn’t mention that she doesn’t remember the last time she slept at  _ night _ . “What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” Lydia replies. “So that’s, what? Seven and a half hours?”

“Something like that,” Laura replies, though it had been impossible for her to pay attention to the clock last night, with Lydia’s body pressed against her.

“So, kissing,” Lydia says casually, leaning in closer to Laura. “Is that something we do now?”

“I have morning breath,” Laura protests weakly.

“So do I,” Lydia says reasonably. She rests her open hand against Laura’s waist, sending tingles up Laura’s spine, and kisses her, warm and slow.

~*~

Days pass, then weeks. Laura does not often sleep through the night, but it does happen occasionally. More nights than not, she’s left awake while Lydia sleeps curled up next to her. It’s probably a good thing, Laura reasons, running her fingers through Lydia’s hair, skimming her fingertips over the expanse of perfect, exposed skin on Lydia’s hip. The twin-sized dorm room bed is not meant for two people to lay side by side, as Lydia and Laura do almost every night. Lying awake means that Laura, at least, is aware enough to keep one of them from rolling off the side.

Laura and Lydia’s relationship is not so different than it was before. Laura brings coffee to Lydia in the library on nights that she works. They eat dinner in the dining hall together. Sometimes, Derek, Scott, and/or Stiles join them. More often, they sit with Kira, Allison, and Jackson—Lydia’s friends from high school—or the people she’s met in the math department and the library. Against all odds, Laura decides she likes them. They go to a party at Jackson’s fraternity house, where Laura gets regrettably drunk on peach schnapps, much to Lydia’s amusement.

Whenever Derek is around, he watches them with a pleased sort of smile. Laura resents him for it, a little, can’t understand why he acts like it’s all so  _ normal _ . Like a semester at college and both of them getting laid is all it’s going to take for things to be like they were before the fire. (And, well. It’s not like Laura and Lydia are having sex. Yet.)

Rationally, Laura knows she shouldn’t be holding this against Derek. He deserves to be happy, to date someone nice and uncomplicated for once. And he isn’t the only one pretending that everything is normal. She is too, because it’s easier than the alternative.

Laura smells smoke wherever she goes.

~*~

It’s Sunday night, and there are only two days between the student population at BHU and Thanksgiving break. Though Laura usually takes comfort in being surrounded by crazy college students, their barely contained excitement has had her on edge the entire weekend. She knows there’s no way she’ll sleep tonight, not when she’s dreading five straight days of an empty campus.

The dining hall is closing Tuesday night for the duration of the holiday, and Laura had been torn trying to decide if attempting to cook Thanksgiving dinner in a dorm kitchen would make her and Derek feel more or less pathetic—until Derek had pulled her aside at lunch today to tell her he was going to visit Scott’s family for Thanksgiving, and did she want to come too?

Laura had demurred. She had her term paper to write for American Government, a project due for her design class. Anything was better than spending five days in a strange house, playing third wheel to Derek and Scott.

Lydia seems to pick up on Laura’s strange mood. It’s getting late, and normally around this time, Lydia would curl up next to Laura, her head pressed against Laura’s chest, and Laura would turn on House Hunters reruns to watch until she finally falls asleep.

Instead, Lydia says, “Do you want to go out?”

“You have class in the morning,” Laura protests.

“No one teaches anything useful two days before break,” Lydia replies. She holds out a hand; Laura drops the keys to the Camaro into her palm.

They go.

~*~

They drive with the windows all rolled down, even though it’s really too cold to do so. Laura, at least, remembered to bring a jacket; Lydia is just wearing the blouse and jeans she’d been wearing all day. Still, the cold doesn’t seem to bother her. Her cheeks are red, her eyes bright. Lydia drives even faster than Laura across the country roads, and the wind tangles cold fingers in her red hair.

Laura isn’t sure where they’re going, or if they’re going anywhere—she’s spent innumerable nights in this car, driving simply because it’s as close to flying as she can get—but she’s still surprised when Lydia turns off onto a long gravel driveway that ends in front of an unlit cabin.

“Where are we?” Laura asks.

“My family’s lake house,” Lydia says. “I come here sometimes, to get away and think.”

Laura looks at the house skeptically. Geographically, of course, it seems pretty  _ away _ —their nearest neighbor must be at least a half mile off, and thick woods cover the ground around it. “So, which is it?” she asks. “Do you come here to get away or to think?”

“Both,” Lydia replies.

Laura sighs. “I think those two things are mutually exclusive.”

“Only if you’re trying to get away from your thoughts,” Lydia says softly.

“What else is there to get away from?” Laura asks. “Oh, I forgot—dining hall food. I bet you have a fancy kitchen in there.”

Lydia smiles wryly and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind Laura’s ear. Laura doubts the windblown look suits her as well as it does Lydia. “Come on,” she says. “No one’s here this weekend. Let’s go rustle up some supplies.”

The “supplies” turn out to be a couple of thick blankets, two bottles of white wine, and a half sleeve of Triscuit crackers. Lydia and Laura take their spoils outside to the dock. Lydia, wrapped up in a fuzzy green blanket, removes the cork from one of the wine bottles and takes a sip straight from the bottle. She passes it to Laura.

It’s a clear night. The lake slaps against the dock sleepily and there are more stars in the sky than Laura has ever seen before. She is suddenly,  _ acutely  _ aware of their aloneness. It feels like a living thing in between them. There is no one around for miles. Laura takes a sip of the wine. Lydia watches her.

Laura sets the bottle down. Lydia leans in and kisses her.

They’ve kissed a lot in the past couple of weeks, but they’ve never been alone together, not like this. The dorm walls aren’t exactly soundproof, and it always smells like someone has just burnt popcorn down the hall. It’s not exactly conducive to romance, though Laura and Lydia have made do. Here, on the other hand—the air here smells wet and earthy and the night is only broken by the occasional owl and the sounds of the lake.

Laura tangles her fingers into Lydia’s hair. It feels like silk against her skin. They trade kisses, soft and lingering. Lydia tilts her head backwards, exposing her long, pale neck. Laura rests her cheek against Lydia’s throat and listens to her pulse.

“You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful,” Laura whispers.

Lydia kisses Laura’s forehead. “Don’t stop, Laura.” Her voice is ragged and hoarse. She slips her hands under Laura’s shirt, her fingernails digging into Laura’s back. “I need you.”

“God,” Laura whispers. She kisses Lydia’s jaw eagerly. Lydia leans back, drawing Laura along with her until they’re laying horizontal on the dock. Laura drags the collar of Lydia’s blouse down far enough to expose the redhead’s collarbone. When Laura begins kissing and sucking on the soft skin there, Lydia gasps. Hesitantly, Laura cups Lydia’s breast with her free hand, running her thumb gently over Lydia’s nipple. The blouse Lydia is wearing is thin, and her bra is unlined—Laura can feel Lydia’s nipple harden at her touch.

Lydia moans. “God, yes. Please, Laura.”

“Do you really want to do this here?” Laura whispers. She’s already breathing heavily.

“Yes,” Lydia hisses, arching her back.

Laura instinctively squeezes Lydia’s breast, eliciting another moan from her partner. She’s sort of straddling one of Lydia’s thighs, and she grinds against it, desperate for contact, for pressure against her clit.

Still, she’s present enough to ask, “Are you sure you’re not— _ oh— _ cold?”

Lydia cups Laura’s face her in hands, pulls her down until their mouths crash together. When she releases Laura, Lydia says, “I don’t think I’ll ever be cold again.”

Logically, Laura is pretty sure they’re both going to be cold as  _ fuck _ when this is all over, but she sure as hell isn’t going to worry about that now. She drags Lydia’s blouse over her head and tosses it aside, admiring the swell of Lydia’s breasts in the lacy blue bra she’s wearing.

“If I’d known we were going to be getting naked, I’d have worn a prettier bra,” Laura comments, running one finger along the edge of Lydia’s bra.

“I love a woman in a sports bra,” Lydia says breathlessly. “I’d want you if you were in a potato sack. In anything. In...nothing.”

“That last one could be arranged,” Laura whispers. She leans over and kisses Lydia again, nibbling her lower lip, enjoying the way their tongues slide against one another as Lydia fumbles with the buttons on her shirt. It only takes a minute before they’re both completely topless. Lydia breaks away from Laura’s lips and captures one of Laura’s brown nipples with her mouth. Her hand reaches up to massage Laura’s other nipple in between two fingers.

“Jesus, Lydia.” Laura grinds against Lydia’s thigh and moans. She’s holding herself up on one elbow, trying to keep from crushing Lydia underneath her, and her free hand fumbles with the button on Lydia’s jeans. It takes her a minute, but she manages to undo the jeans, and she eagerly slides her fingers between Lydia’s labia.

Lydia’s slick and wet and  _ wonderful _ , and she squeaks when Laura momentarily brushes against her clit. But Laura can’t concentrate, not with Lydia sucking and licking one nipple and then switching to the other, not with the way she’s grinding against Lydia’s thigh. Laura knows it’s going to be over way too soon if they keep it up like this, and she isn’t ready for it to be over. So she leans back, panting, and asks, “Can I go down on you?”

“As if I’d say no,” Lydia retorts.

It turns out that skinny jeans are a little harder to take off than bras or shirts, especially when they’re both trembling with excitement and arousal, but they manage. Lydia’s panties match her bra, and Laura’s a little sad to see them go, but she loses that train of thought once she had her mouth on Lydia. Lydia’s legs are over Laura’s shoulders, her thighs pressed against Laura’s head, and Laura is so turned on that she aches. She can feel the blood pounding between her legs.

Laura starts out rubbing her thumb lightly and repeatedly over Lydia’s clit, licking aimlessly and a little sloppily around her fingers. Lydia whimpers when Laura repositions her hand so that she can insert first one finger, and then two inside her, then replaces her thumb with her mouth, running her tongue back and forth over Lydia’s clit. When Lydia cries out and rocks her hips to press her pussy against Laura’s face, Laura begins to suck gently at her clitoris.

Lydia’s moans gets louder. Her thighs tighten against Laura’s head, she drags her fingers through Laura’s hair—

Unable to ignore the ache between her legs any longer, Laura thrusts her hand between her legs, rubbing against her palm in an attempt to take the edge off. Her mouth stays focused on Lydia. It’s only a couple of minutes longer before she can feel the muscles in Lydia’s legs start to spasm.

“Oh, God, Laura! Lau—oh, yes, fuck!” Lydia’s back arches. Laura pulls her face back, continuing to lick Lydia’s clit until she becomes still beneath Laura.

Pulling back until she’s resting on her heels, Laura shoves a hand down her sweatpants and fucks herself on her fingers until she comes. It only takes a couple of minutes. Lydia watches her through half-closed eyes, and licks her lips.

When Laura crashes onto the blanket next to Lydia, she sighs. Lydia says, “You are so sexy.”

“So are you,” Laura mumbles sleepily.

“We should go inside,” Lydia says, although she makes no effort to move. “I’m cold.”

“Told you so,” Laura replies.

~*~

Laura doesn’t tell Lydia about Derek’s change of Thanksgiving plans, but she’s half afraid Lydia might invite her to Thanksgiving anyways. She isn’t sure she’s up to acting like a normal, functioning college freshman in front of Lydia’s parents for five days straight. But Lydia doesn’t ask, and Laura spends five days on an empty campus, texting Lydia, liking Derek and Scott’s selfies on Instagram, and taking cat naps in the library.

After the fact, losing her virginity isn’t as big of a deal as Laura had thought it would be. It doesn’t really change things, except that now she and Lydia spend several nights a week in Laura’s bed with their shirts off, and Laura tries not to think about how many other girls Lydia’s been with when the redhead goes down on her. It’s not that she’s jealous, exactly; she just sometimes feels inexperienced and inadequate and  _ stupid _ . It’s completely irrational—Lydia doesn’t seem to have any complaints about her performance—but she can’t seem to help it.

“Sounds like you have some kind of internalized fear of sex. Or maybe relationships in general,” Stiles says, when she tries to explain this feeling to him. She’s not entirely sure when—or why—they became friends, but it’s hard to deny that that’s what they are now.

“Sounds like you’ve actually been doing your reading for your intro psych class,” Laura retorts.

“Hey, you asked for my opinion,” Stiles says. “And my opinion is that you have a lot of crap you’re suppressing. Your ‘happy in love’ act might have Derek and Scott fooled— _ temporarily— _ but not me.”

Laura sighs, because he’s probably not wrong. “Any advice, Dr. Freud?”

Stiles spins his laptop to face her. “Cosmo suggests tantric massage,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m sure Lydia would be happy to hel—”

Laura throws a textbook at him.

Orgasms do seem to be the internet’s go-to solution for insomnia, Laura discovers after a little research of her own. Lydia certainly sleeps like the dead after she comes. Laura did too, the first two or three times they had sex, but the past week has been as sleepless as those immediately following the fire. She leaves Lydia asleep in her dorm room at night and wanders around the campus. It’s December and cold out, but she doesn’t always remember to grab her jacket. Her breath makes clouds in the dark night air. She’s always back by morning, but Lydia must wake up at some point in the middle of the night, because she asks where Laura was.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Laura says. “I’m just stressing about finals. You know how it is.”

Lydia eyes Laura dubiously, but she doesn’t press her for further information. Laura is relieved—until Derek brings it up at lunch one day.

“Lydia  _ told you _ ?” Laura asks disgustedly.

“She’s worried,” Derek says. “Laura, I wish you would talk to someone.”

Laura throws her hands up in the air. “I already  _ told _ her about the fire! What else do you want?”

Derek sighs. “Telling her about it is a good first step—but it’s not the same thing as  _ talking _ about it. And if you don’t feel like you can talk about it with us...Laura, maybe you should consider talking to, you know, a professional.”

“You want me to see a shrink,” Laura says flatly.

“The university has free mental health services,” Derek suggests.

“No chance in hell.” Laura crosses her arms. “Besides, you’re one to talk! You didn’t talk to me for months after the fire, Derek! Months! I needed you, and you were just—just—checked out!”

“And I’m sorry about that,” Derek says levelly. “I was grieving, and I didn’t know what to do. I wish I could have been there for you, but—” Derek sighs. “I honestly wasn’t sure if you wanted me to be.”

Laura turns her back on Derek, so she doesn’t have to look directly at him, nut instead peers over her shoulder at his feet. “What about before the fire?” she whispers. “You—you never told me. About Kate.”

Derek looks at the ground. “I know. I just—she had me convinced that if I told anyone, I would, you know, lose her. That we wouldn’t be able to be together.” His voice is almost inaudible when he says, “I understand, if you blame me for the fire.”

“Blame you?” Laura whispers. “Der, you were just a kid. I don’t blame you. I just don’t understand—” Her voice cracks. She swallows hard. “How can you tell me to, to talk about it, like that will make everything okay? How can  _ you _ act like everything's okay?”

“It’s not okay,” Derek says softly. “It will never be okay. But, Laura, talking helps. You’re bottling everything up. You barely cried at the funeral, you never talk about Mom or anyone else.”

“I just want to be strong for you and Cora,” Laura says. “I—I wasn’t  _ there _ for you, before the fire. I should have known, but I—”

“No.” Derek reaches out and pulls her into a hug. “Laura, you can’t think like that. It wasn’t your fault. And—I don’t know what we would have done without you, those first few months after. But you can’t do that forever. You can’t—you shouldn’t feel like you have to make up for something that was never your fault.”

Laura pulls away from him and shrugs. “I guess.”

“Laura,” Derek looks at her. “Promise me you’ll consider talking about this. To me or Lydia or a counselor or, I don’t know,  _ somebody _ . Promise.”

“I promise,” Laura mumbles, before escaping the room.

~*~

Laura doesn’t go to dinner that night. She doesn’t go back to her dorm. She takes her laptop and sets up camp in a laundry room in the basement of the dormitory. There’s a pretty steady stream of traffic in the evening, but it begins to slow down after ten. Laura gets a diet Pepsi and a pack of crackers from a vending machine to eat for dinner.

It’s a little past midnight when Lydia finds her.

“You aren’t answering my texts,” Lydia says, sounding hurt. “I thought we were over the whole thing where you avoid me.”

“Yes. Instead, you just talk about me to my brother behind my back,” Laura says. She’s sitting on top of a dryer, leaning against a set of stack washers next to her. It’s impossible to keep herself from looking at Lydia—she’s like a magnet, or a black hole, Laura thinks bitterly—but she does her best to limit her looks to brief glances.

Lydia scowls when Laura refuses to meet her eyes. Anger makes her pale skin flushed and splotchy. “Is that really what this is about? I’m worried about you, Laura, and you sure as hell aren’t talking to me!”

“Why is everyone always on me to  _ talk _ about things?” Laura snaps. She slams her open palm against the dryer. “Jesus Christ! Sorry I don’t just break down and spill my guts to you every time I have a bad day!”

“If it was just a bad day, I wouldn’t be worried!” Lydia says. She takes a couple of steps towards Laura, but stops in the middle of the laundry room. “Laura, you’ve barely slept at all in the last week. You can barely concentrate on your schoolwork. You’re distant, and, no offense, you’re moody as fuck!”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Laura says.

Lydia throws her arms up in the air. “It’s not about wanting you to  _ say _ anything.”

“Then I don’t understand what this is about!”

“Of course you do!” Lydia stops and takes a deep breath. Exhales. Starts to pace before forcing herself to stop and lean against a wall. “Look, Laura, I didn’t mean to start this. I don’t want to fight with you.” She doesn’t look at Laura as she says it.

Laura gets off of the dryer she’s been perched on top of and crosses the room to stand in front of Lydia. Moving slowly, carefully, she reaches up and cups Lydia’s face in her hands. “Lydia, this is—it’s all new to me. And I like spending time with you. You’re amazing.”

“But?” Lydia whispers.

Laura pulls her hands away, looks away. “But maybe you should think about if this is what you really want or if—if this, having me,  _ fixing _ me, is just another challenge to you.”

Lydia’s breath hisses through her clenched teeth. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” Laura admits. “But that’s how I feel.”

“Laura,” Lydia says, “I love you. I know that this is—it’s crazy, and it’s fast, and believe it or not, it’s new for me too. I’ve never felt like this about anyone else. This isn’t about the challenge, or the chase, or whatever you think this is for me. I  _ love _ you. And I want you to be happy. And—I need you to trust me, if this is going to work. Trust that I care about you, and that I want you to be happy...and trust me enough to talk to me, instead of running away.”

“I want to but—I don’t know if I can,” Laura says softly.

“Well then,” Lydia says, “it looks like we both have things to think about.” She leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Laura’s cheek, and leaves Laura standing in the laundry room, staring blankly at the wall.

~*~

Laura had thought that Lydia would avoid her after the fight, or the confrontation, or whatever it was, but she doesn’t. They eat meals together in the dining hall. They hold hands when they walk across campus. They drag chairs together in the library, and takes turns bringing coffee from the campus Starbucks. With Lydia’s help, Laura drags herself through finals, hyped up on espresso. Lydia does not spend nights in Laura’s dorm room. They don’t have sex. Laura doesn’t sleep.

At midnight or one or two a.m., when they pack up their things and abandon the library, Laura heads to the Camaro and drives. There’s a little 24 hour diner downtown that serves watery coffee and some of the best damn doughnuts she’s ever had. One night, she goes back up to Lydia’s lakehouse, driving slowly past the house but not stopping; out here, the night is too dark and too quiet for Laura to face it alone.

After Thanksgiving, Laura is a little afraid that Derek might leave her to spend Christmas in their empty little apartment alone. The dorms are closing for the four week break. But when she gets the nerve to ask him, he says that Scott only lives an hour away from them, and he can always make a trip up if they want to see each other.

The night before the dorms close, Stiles whines and pleas until they all agree to go to a party at a house half of a mile from campus. He’s already drinking a PBR when Laura gets there. She eyes it with distaste. The taste of cheap beer has not grown on her since homecoming.

“I made it through finals without having to rewrite any boring economics essays,” Stiles tells her defensively. “I deserve this.”

“And  _ I _ had to spend all week listening to you complain about your boring economics essay,” Derek says dryly. “Which means I deserve at least twice of whatever you drink. I’m going to get a beer. Do you want anything?”

That last question is directed at Laura and Scott. Scott accepts amiably, beaming at Derek, but Laura shakes her head. “I want to find Lydia,” she says. “She ought to be here by now.”

Derek and Scott amble off in the direction of the kitchen in search of the cooler. Laura begins to poke her head into the rooms downstairs. The house is huge and old and there’s a room for everything—formal living, regular living, formal dining, regular dining, a study, a gameroom—and her chest aches when she thinks about their old house, set up much the same way, burnt to ashes. She doesn’t realize that Stiles had followed her until he says, “So, what’s up with you and the ever-gorgeous Lydia?”

“If she ever heard you say that, she would crush you like a bug,” Laura warns.

“I think she would  _ pretend _ to crush me, but would be secretly flattered. Well, flattered might be a strong word, but I still thinks she likes being admired.” Laura shoots hims a skeptical look over her shoulder. “No? Okay. We’ll call it fifty/fifty on the likelihood of actual crushing.”

“ _ I’ll _ crush you if you don’t shut up,” she threatens.

“Laura!” someone calls. Laura looks around and spots Allison across the room, waving cheerfully. With her is Lydia, who smiles when Laura catches her eyes.

“Go watch out for Derek and Scott,” Laura tells Stiles. “We’ll find you later.”

“Fine, fine,” Stiles replies. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

Even across the room, Laura can see that Lydia’s face is already flushed a splotchy pink. Though Lydia complains about this particular effect that drinking has on her fair complexion, Laura has always found it to be pretty cute. She fights her way across the crowded room, eventually getting close enough to bump Allison’s shoulder with her own and squeeze Lydia’s hand in greeting.

“How long have you guys been here?” Laura asks. She has to shout to be heard over the din of the crowd.

“Long enough for Lydia to get her ass kicked at quarters by a group of lacrosse players,” Allison replies, snickering.

“Oh, go screw yourself,” Lydia retorts. “I was at a disadvantage! Lacrosse players have—um—naturally strong hand-eye coordination. Or something.”

“Honey, you’re drunk,” Allison says.

“And it’s not even ten,” Laura says, shaking her head.

Lydia jabs a finger into Laura’s chest. “Like you’re one to talk. I was there for the peach schnapps incident, ma’am. And I’m not drunk. Just—tipsy.”

“And wondering what you’re going to do for four weeks without the library, I’m sure,” Laura says.

Lydia reaches out and pulls Laura into a hug, burying her face in Laura’s hair. “Wondering what I’m going to do for four weeks without you,” she protests.

Laura wraps her arms around Lydia and kisses her temple. “Yes, I’ll miss you too,” she says. “You don’t see me getting drunk over it.”

“That was the lacrosse players,” Lydia replies sleepily.

“Do you mind watching her?” Allison interrupts. She smiles apologetically at Laura. “Kira’s around here somewhere, and we’re supposed to go to another party later with some of her classmates. I think Lydia might need some help getting home on the sooner side of things.”

“I can hear you,” Lydia mumbles, her face cradled against the curve of Laura’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I got her,” Laura says. “I  _ do _ owe her after the peach schnapps incident.”

After Allison leaves, Laura guides Lydia into a chair, coaxing a glass of water into her. About halfway into the second glass of water, Lydia begins to complain that it’s too hot in the house. “We can go sit out in the backyard,” Laura says, helping Lydia to her feet. “Did you bring a coat?”

“No,” Lydia says. She wraps an arm around Laura’s waist, allowing most of her weight to rest against the taller girl. Laura has to put her own arm around Lydia to hold her up.

“Come on, now,” Laura teases. “I know you’re not  _ that _ drunk.”

“Maybe I just like having the excuse to snuggle you,” Lydia replies. She tips her head up to look at Laura and smiles.

Laura thinks about the past week, about nights spent alone. “You know you don’t need an excuse,” she says, but her voice is a little hollow. “Or at least, you didn’t use to.”

Lydia sighs and straightens up, taking her weight off Laura. Her arm drops away. “Laura—”

“I don’t think now is the best time to talk about it,” Laura says, cutting her off. “C’mon, let’s get you some fresh air.”

There’s people out in the backyard, but it’s not nearly as packed as the house, and there’s no roof to hold in the heat from their bodies and the smell of sweat and cheap alcohol. Lydia lowers herself onto the peeling steps leading from the deck to the grass, and after a second’s hesitation, Laura sits next to her.

There’s a heated discussion about s’mores taking place in the yard. Within a few minutes, there’s a group of people piling logs and twigs and dry pine straw in the middle of a circle of dirt that’s clearly been used to host bonfires before. The pine straw catches fire first, but it quickly spreads to the twigs. Almost everyone is standing around the fire at this point, holding their hands towards the flames for warmth. A couple of guys continue to pile wood onto the fire. It grows.

Laura watches as a bit of fiery pine straw is picked up by the wind. It blows towards her, narrowly missing her face. Her muscles are locked in place. She can’t move.

The fire is growing taller. The smoke—it’s getting thicker. It doesn’t smell like a campfire, doesn’t smell like childhood memories of camping in their backyard. The smoke is black and acrid and she can smell flesh burning she can see people falling to the ground the fire is growing it’s growing she can’t see the edges and people are screaming, screaming—

“Lydia, if you were straight, I would gladly marry you and have your babies, but right now you need to  _ back up! _ ”

The voice is so at odds with what is going on that Laura snaps back into something resembling—consciousness, if not reality. It’s like time has bent, and she is seeing two scenes superimposed over one another—Derek on his knees in front of their burning house. Two firefighters slinging to Uncle Peter’s arms, trying to keep him from running back into the house as he screams. Another firefighter, Cora’s body limp in his arms. A chorus of screams as the glass in an upstairs window—Matthew's bedroom window—explodes and fire roars outwards. That’s one image.

In the other, Stiles’s face is too close to hers, blocking out her view of the bonfire. Lydia hovering anxiously behind him, her eyeliner smeared across one cheek. Laura’s fingernails are digging into her jeans. Her breath is jagged and harsh against her throat which, despite the lack of smoke, still burns like the night of the house fire.

In both, tears stream down her face.

“Go find Derek,” Stiles says, and Lydia is off, skating nervously along the edge of the stairs like she’s afraid to be too close to Laura. “Laura, can you hear me? You’re having a panic attack. You’re okay, you’re safe. Derek’s going to be here in a minute, okay?”

“Der,” Laura gasps.

“Yep, that’s right,” Stiles says. “You need to slow down your breathing, okay? I’m going to count—trying breathing in for five seconds, holding for two, and then breathing out, okay?”

Laura blacks out before Stiles reaches five.

~*~

Laura is flat on her back on Derek’s bed, staring at the ceiling. Sunlight pours through a crack in the blinds, illuminating the room. Soon, Derek’s alarm will go off and they’ll have to drag their suitcases out to the Camaro and head home for the break.

She tries not to think about the night before. Calling it an overreaction is an understatement. And it’s not like this is the first time she’s seen a fire since the night their family died. There’s a fancy electric fireplace in the student center, and there were bonfires on campus homecoming weekend. She can’t stand the thought that she’s getting worse, that she’s falling apart, that she might spend the rest of her life flinching at candles and sirens and the smell of burnt ramen in the dorm kitchens.

She’d came to consciousness in Derek’s arms. She’d insisted that he put her down, but he still kept his arm around her for the entire walk back to the dorm, which was probably a good thing, because she hadn’t totally regained feeling in her feet. It was cold and quiet and the only thing Derek said to her the whole way back was “You need help, Laura.”

Derek and Stiles must have made some kind of agreement, because Derek is sleeping in Stiles’s bed and Stiles is nowhere to be seen—he’d probably crashed on Scott’s floor. Laura rolls over and is busy staring at the cinderblock wall when someone knocks on the door.

Derek tries to sit up on top of Stiles’s lofted bed and barely manages to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. His hair sticks up in soft tufts. “Can you get that?” he grumbles. “Stiles probably forgot his key or something.”

Laura sighs and crawls out of bed. She’s still in her clothes from yesterday, and they’re wrinkled from being slept in. She takes a second to run her fingers through her hair before she opens the door.

Lydia stares at her from across the threshold. “Hey,” she says.

Laura stares back at her. A second too late, she replies, “Hey.”

“I went by your room, but no one answered,” Lydia says. “I figured you’d be here—or at least that, you know, Derek or Stiles could tell me that you’re okay.”

“Okay,” Laura echoes softly.

“Yeah,” Lydia replies. “I mean, you seem,” she gestures in a way that somehow makes Laura even more self-conscious of her messy hair and day-old clothing, “fine. All things considered.”

“All things considered,” Laura says hollowly.

The repetitiveness of the conversation seems to annoy Lydia a little. Her cheeks flush and the corners of her mouth turn down. “Yeah.”

Laura shakes her head, trying to clear out the fogginess that has surrounded her all morning. “I’m, uh, sorry. For freaking out on you.”

Lydia’s shoulders slump. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Laura says again.

“It’s not your fault,” Lydia says softly. “I’m glad Stiles showed up. I had just started, like, shaking you, when I realized you weren’t responding—I completely lost it. I didn’t know what to do.”

Laura looks at the ground.

“Anyways,” Lydia says with forced cheerfulness. “I thought we could get together sometime over the break. Hang out, maybe talk about things, if you’re up to it. Not before Christmas—I’ve got Christmas parties and all kinds of family crap, my mom would  _ kill _ me if I missed any of it. But maybe after New Years—”

“No,” Laura says.

“No?” Lydia asks. She purses her lips.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Laura says. “Look, Lydia, I’m clearly not ready for a relationship, or whatever this is. There’s just—I have a lot going on right now. And I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get anymore, you know, involved.”

“Involved?” Lydia says. For a second, she looks surprised and worse, hurt, like Laura has slapped her, but her expression quickly dissolves into anger. “Laura, I am  _ trying _ to be here for you, but you are sure as  _ hell _ not making it easy for me!”

“Oh, you’re trying to be here for me, are you?” Laura retorts. “What, do you want a medal? ‘Look at me, selflessly attempting to nurse my crazy girlfriend back to help!’”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” Lydia snaps.

“Go away, Lydia,” Laura says quietly. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

Lydia opens her mouth, closes it. Blinks twice. “Fine,” she says.

Laura shuts the door quietly.

Derek is still in bed, half-sitting with his weight resting on his elbows. He stares at her, eyebrows furrowed, and she can tell that he’s—he’s annoyed, but worse, he’s worried, and that feels like a knife to her gut. She’s supposed to take care of him, goddamnit.

Because she can’t, she just snarls, “I don’t want to hear it from you, either.”

Derek just looks at her. “Fine,” he says finally. His voice is weary. “Let’s go home.”

~*~

Being back at the apartment is weird, partially because of how—well— _ restful _ it is. Laura remembers resenting the quietness of the apartment building just a few short months before, but for the first couple of days at home, she revels in it. Part of the difference, she thinks, is due to the change she sees in Derek. That change is even more stark now that they’re home, now that they’re around each other basically 24/7 again.

Four months at school; four months of dating Scott, who is inhumanly nice; four months of hanging out with Stiles, who can make anyone laugh, even if they’re just laughing at him—the last four months have made Derek into someone not unlike who he was before the fire. He doesn’t smile as easily, and he sometimes fall silent in the middle of conversations—but he talks to Laura about professors he’s had and hated and books he’s read and loved. He hugs her when she makes breakfast for dinner. He watches Christmas movies and makes sarcastic commentary for the first twenty minutes before he becomes completely engrossed, the big sap.

Cora surprises them when she shows up to the apartment two days before Christmas. “Airplane tickets were on sale,” she says. “So I decided that I could probably tolerate you two losers for a couple of days.”

Laura isn’t fooled, and neither is Derek, but they both tactfully refrain from mentioning how Cora’s eyes water up when she hugs them.

They exchange gifts on Christmas morning under a scrawny, half-dead Christmas tree that Derek found at Walmart. Cora makes snide comments, but helps Derek string lights around it. “It was the only one they had left,” Derek says plaintively. “It was on clearance!”

They even take turns facetiming Uncle Peter on Cora’s iPad. Their conversations don’t last long—Peter is celebrating Christmas with his new girlfriend in the Bahamas.

“Gross,” Cora says once they’re all done talking. She wrinkles her nose.

“He deserves to be happy,” Derek says firmly, but Laura privately agrees with Cora. Peter’s girlfriend is far too young for him.

Laura manages to get a good night’s sleep about one night in three, which is not a lot but still much better than she’s been doing since the fire. The rest of her nights alternative between insomnia and nightmares about fire and smoke and Derek and Cora crumbling to ashes in her hands as she desperately tries to put them back 

together.

“You seem to be doing a little better,” Derek says, the day after Cora leaves to go back to Argentina.

“A little,” Laura agrees. “Part of it was getting to see you and Cora, I think. But part of it—I don’t know.”

“It’s being away from school, isn’t it?” Derek asks. Laura nods. “I thought so.”

“It was nice to have a distraction for a little while,” Laura says. “But—I guess, having to interact with all those people, all the time. Doing homework. Going to class. I feel like a senior citizen, sometimes. I just—don’t always have the energy. And then, worrying about what I’m not doing makes it so hard to sleep. Which is a pretty big downward spiral.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I felt that way for a long time.” He reaches out, clasps Laura’s hands in his own. “Laura? I’m sorry if I’m beating a dead horse but—you should do what makes you happy. Or at least, what makes you okay.”

“Yeah,” Laura says.

That night, sleep does not come. She spends a long time fingering a business card, given to her months ago. “Everyone reacts to trauma differently,” she says quietly. “Everyone heals differently.”

~*~

The next day, she makes an appointment with a therapist the social worker recommends.

The therapist listens to Laura stumble through a brief description of the fire, of sleepless nights and the panic attack at the fire and her breakup with Lydia and the constant feelings of fatigue, and sets up a weekly appointment for her. He also refers her to a psychiatrist. Laura makes an appointment with the psychiatrist, where she has to grit her teeth and go through the whole story again. The psychiatrist talks about PTSD and depression and SSRIs, gives her a prescription and a thorough warning about side effects, and schedules her for another appointment in four weeks.

Two days after that, she makes breakfast for dinner and makes Derek sit at the dining room table instead of the couch. “I’m not going back to school this semester.”

“I know,” Derek says.

Laura looks at her food. “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me or—or feel like I’m abandoning you,” she says.

Derek looks at her, surprised. “Lo, I’m not disappointed in you,” he says softly. “And I don’t feel abandoned. This is what I meant before. You need to do what is best for you. And—I’m happy you’re finally getting help.”

“Me too,” Laura says. She gives Derek a watery smile.

“I don’t—I don’t like the idea of you living here alone,” Derek says. “Maybe I should look at taking a semester at Tech. Or I could take a semester off—”

“No,” Laura says hurriedly. “No, I don’t want that.”

“Well, it’s your choice,” Derek says, although he looks like wants to argue. “I mean—whatever makes you happiest. Right?”

Laura thinks about it. Admittedly, she’s not really looking forward to living by herself, but she desperately wants Derek to return to BHU and to Scott. She’s not sure she could bare the guilt otherwise, even if Derek if offering. She isn’t sure what to do, and she knows that if Derek senses so much as a hint of doubt about living alone, he’ll drop out of BHU after all. So after dinner, she texts Stiles.

**Stiles:** it sounds like u need a roommate butternut

**Laura:** ewww

**Stiles:** no to butternut? i thought it had great potential

**Stiles:** that je ne sais quoi

**Laura:** i’m going to ignore u before u ruin our beautiful friendship

**Laura:** but seriously how do normal people find roommates

**Stiles:** craigslist

**Laura:** that is a terrible idea

**Laura:** pretty sure craigslist is for serial killers & perverts

**Stiles:** leave it 2 me

Which is how Laura ends up with a posting on Craigslist that reads: “Roommates wanted - 3 bedroom apartment downtown - NO PERVERTS OR SERIAL KILLERS - call # below if interested.” She’s pretty sure Stiles meant it as a joke, but sure enough, by the time Derek is packing up to return to BHU, Laura has two roommates lined up to move in. Erica has blonde hair, hooded eyes, and blood red lipstick. Despite Stiles assuring her that Erica made it through his “specialized, son-of-the-police-chief-approved screening process,” Laura still isn’t entirely sure she’s  _ not _ a serial killer. Isaac has angelic curls and killer cheekbones and sort of comes off as a dick, but Stiles assures her that he is really a marshmallow on the inside.

“I get the feeling you were screening people on looks alone,” Laura tells Stiles when she talks to him on the phone.

“Your lack of faith wounds me,” he replies.

“I can’t believe you let  _ Stiles _ pick out  _ random roommates _ for you over living with your own twin,” Derek shouts in the background.

“Listening to you pine for Scott would disrupt my healing process!” Laura yells back.

“Ow!” Stiles says. “You’re not on speakerphone, Laura! You nearly just blew out my eardrum.”

“Make sure you relay the message,” Laura says airly.

Stiles sighs, sounding much put upon. “I will.”

On the last day of registration, Laura goes to the community college—referred to by most of the locals simply as “Tech”—and registers for a class on the history of landscaping. Afterwards, she drives around and puts in applications at a couple of nurseries and home improvement stores that have gardening centers. It seems like the sort of thing her therapist is always encouraging her to do.

Laura goes to class, does her readings. She becomes friendly with Erica, who is wickedly funny—she can see why Stiles liked her—and discovers that Isaac is, as promised, a complete marshmallow. She hangs out with Derek and Scott and sometimes Stiles when they come home on the weekends to visit her, and sends them snapchats of the cookies Isaac makes and of Erica’s crazy outfits when they don’t.

She goes to the appointments with the therapist and the appointments with the psychiatrist and has the dosage of her medicine carefully adjusted and readjusted. She gets a job with a local nursery, and spends twenty-five hours a week hauling bags of dirt around. Sometimes she sleep and sometimes she doesn’t, but she does her best to adhere to the new schedule.

She doesn’t talk to Lydia, even though she thinks she might want to.

~*~

In late April, Laura goes to visit Derek at BHU.

As much as she likes her job at the nursery and her classmates at Tech, Laura has been feeling, well—kind of restless, lately. She spends an afternoon flipping through the BHU catalog, thinking about all the cool classes in landscaping and design she’ll be able to take if she ever makes it through her intro classes. She talks with her therapist, who agrees. She’s going to re-enroll at BHU for the fall semester.

Of course, there’s paperwork involved. From Laura’s brief experience with academic bureaucracy, she knows that things will go smoother if she can turn in some of it in person, so she can flutter her eyelashes at certain members of the administrative staff and look pathetic and downtrodden for others. And, if she’s being honest with herself, maybe this is a test—a chance to see if she can really go back without falling to pieces. So that Friday, Laura packs herself a dufflebag, loads it into the Camaro, and heads up to BHU.

When she gets to Derek’s dorm room, he grabs her into a bear hug. “I’m so glad you’re going to be back,” he says.

Laura smiles at him. “So am I.”

“Oh my god, I am too stressed to deal with wonder twin cuteness in my own dorm room!” Stiles cries from his desk. “Please go have this reunion elsewhere!” After a second, he adds, “Laura, I will be happy to see you after I turn in this paper at precisely 11:59.”

“Understood,” Laura says solemnly.

“We better go,” Derek says in a mock whisper. “Before he subjects us to the entire history of male circum—”

“Ugh!” Stiles shouts, burying his face in his hands. “Would you guys just let that go already!”

Laura snickers.

She, Derek, and Scott end up wandering around campus. The atmosphere is mixed—there’s just a week and a half until finals, but it’s a Friday and the weather is warm and inviting. Students play frisbee or nap in the shade or spread out their textbooks across a blanket in the grass, highlighting entire passages lazily. Laura hasn’t seen Scott much this semester—he’s only came home with Derek two or three times—and she’s recounting one of Isaac’s many baking disasters to him when she looks up and sees—

Red hair.

Laura freezes. It takes her a couple of seconds to confirm that yes, that is Lydia, standing fifteen feet away on the steps of an academic building, looking at them. Derek and Scott have stopped too, and once Derek realizes what has caught Laura’s attention, he looks at her with furrowed brows.

“Give me a second,” Laura says without looking away from Lydia. “I’ll catch up with you guys.”

Derek hesitates. “Are you sure…?” he says, but he doesn’t seem to know what he’s asking her.

Laura sighs. “I’m sure, Der. I left things...badly, and that’s on me. I should probably apologize.”

Derek looks like he wants to argue that point, but Scott loops his arm around Derek’s and draws him away. Laura hears him say, “It’s not like they can avoid each other forever, if Laura’s coming back—there’s less than six thousand students here, they’re bound to run into each other…” before they’re out of earshot.

Yes, they’re bound to run into one another, and she might as well get this confrontation out of the way now, when she has a couple months at home in front of her, time to lick her wounds. Laura approaches Lydia slowly, half-expecting her to run away—but of course, Lydia was never one to be afraid of confrontation. Her mouth is set and her hazel eyes are unreadable, but she is as beautiful as ever.

When Laura gets within a couple of feet of Lydia, she stops. Lydia glances over her cooly. “Can I help you?” she asks. Her voice is brisk.

It takes Laura a second to get up the nerve to say, “We should talk.”

Lydia sighs. Her shoulders slump. “I have an exam in ten minutes. Let’s get coffee tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Laura says.

Lydia looks away from Laura, towards the clumps of students lazing in the sun. “You have my number,” Lydia says. She turns on her heel and walks into the building. Laura watches her go, knees wobbling, before walking slowly to catch up with Scott and Derek.

~*~

They arrange to meet at the campus Starbucks at 11:30 the next morning. Laura gets there early and buys them both a coffee—a latte for Lydia and a decaf iced coffee for herself. She tries to limit her caffeine consumption most days—too much makes her heart race and her hands shake. She wills herself not to look at the door to the coffee shop.

At exactly eleven, Lydia gracefully swoops into the chair across from Laura and eyes the latte. “For me?” she asks.

Laura smiles wanly. “It’s tradition,” she says.

They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity. Laura’s palms are sweating, and she can feel her heart rate increase when she realizes that she should probably be the one to break the silence. Despite a fairly sleepless night the night before, she hadn’t figured out what she would say today.

_ Breathe slowly _ , she reminds herself firmly.  _ And start with the simple things _ .

“I want to say that I’m sorry,” Laura says, fighting to keep her voice steady. “For...the way I left things. I had a lot going on, but it wasn’t fair for me to lash out at you.

“But,” Laura pauses, trying to get her words into order. “I’m not sorry for some things. I’m not sorry for leaving school. I needed some time to figure things out, and that’s helped a lot. And—I’m not sorry for breaking things off with you, just the way it happened. You were—a distraction, for me. Being with you made it easier to not think about the problems I was having, at least at first. But it didn’t make them go away. And maybe I needed to get away from you to realize that.”

“I’m sorry too,” Lydia says. “I’m sorry for pushing you to talk when you didn’t want to. And I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive. I’ve thought about that a lot, recently. Once I started to get over the hurt feelings. I should have tried harder to be there for you. Even if it was just as friends.”

Laura hesitates, then rests her hand on top of Lydia’s. “I wouldn’t have let you, not at first,” she says seriously. “I had— _ have _ —some problems with trust. It’s something I’m working on.”

“Well,” Lydia says, trying to smile. “I had— _ have— _ some problems with perfectionism, and trying to fix things people don’t need or want me to fix. It’s something I’m working on.”

Laura laughs. “We’re just a mess, aren’t we?”

“Apparently,” Lydia says. “Laura, I know it might be too little, too late, but I’d like to be friends now.”

Laura squeezes Lydia’s hand. “I’d like that too. I’m coming back to BHU in the fall—you might have guessed that already, I guess—and it would be nice to have a friend other than Stiles. And Derek, of course.”

“Of course. You can’t rely on Stilinski for life advice,  _ honestly _ .” Lydia sniffs.

“Alright, then,” Laura says, clicking her coffee cup against Lydia’s. “To friendship.”

~*~

**Epilogue: 2.5 Years Later**

“Ugh,” Laura says, collapsing on the couch in their living room. “I can’t believe there’s only one hundred and ninety-seven days until graduation.”

Lydia looks over at her coolly from her position at the dining room table, surrounded by workbooks. “Laura,” she says, “You cannot start counting down yet. It’s only October, for god’s sake. Can’t you wait until January or something?”

“I think you would be more excited if you weren’t about to sign yourself up for eight years of schooling,” Laura says sagely.

Lydia snorts. “The only way it’s going to take me eight years to finish my PhD is if I spend two of them in a coma,” she argues.

Allison pokes her head out of one of the bedroom doors. “Eight years is the average time it takes to finish a PhD program, Lydia, god. Try not to rub it in, okay?”

“And stop studying and go out with me,” Laura adds lazily. “It’s a Friday, and we all know you’re gonna knock your GREs out of the park. Let’s go have some fun.”

“Studying is fun,” Lydia grumbles.

“Nuh-uh, you can fool the other library nerds with that kind of talk, but you can’t fool me,” Laura says. “I want to go swimming. Let’s hit up your lake house. Allison, you in?”

Allison shakes her head. “Isaac and I are going out tonight,” she says, her cheeks flushed.

Laura sighs mournfully. “I don’t know why I ever introduced you two,” she says. “Come on, Lyds, what do you say? Swimming? Lakehouse? Movie marathon afterwards?”

Lydia resists a little while longer, complaining about her work and how cold the water is going to be this time of year, but Laura wins out—she nearly always does, when it comes to Lydia. She throws her swimsuit and pajamas and a change of clothes for the morning into a duffle bag and basically dances her way out to Lydia’s car. Lydia follows at a more reasonable gait.

Because Lydia doesn’t take defeat sitting down, they listen to Tchaikovsky the whole way out to the lake. Laura doesn’t complain as much as she usually might, which makes Lydia eye her suspiciously—but hey, what can she say? She’s happy.

Still, Laura doesn’t want to ruin the surprise, so she tries to act extra surly for the second half of the car ride.

She has to talk Lydia out of stopping somewhere for dinner, but they finally make it to the lake house a little after dark. “Come on,” Laura tells Lydia, a little giddy. “Let’s go out to the dock!” She breaks into a half-jog.

“I am too old to have sex outdoors, Laura Anne Hale!” Lydia shouts after her. “So don’t even think about it!”

“Not everything is about sex, Lydia!” Laura calls back gleefully.

She had driven up to the lake house earlier that day to set everything up. There’s a little folding table positioned on the dock, with a checkered tablecloth over it and a vase of red roses in the middle. There’s a bottle of wine and a box of crackers set out, and a travel cooler filled with cheese on one of the chairs. Laura is lighting the little candles when Lydia crests the hill and stops in her tracks. She covers her mouth with her hands.

“Happy six month anniversary!” Laura says, throwing her hands into the air.

“You sneak!” Lydia accuses. “What were you going to do if I didn’t agree to come out here?”

“I knew you would agree,” Laura says smugly. “You always do.”

Lydia wraps her arms around her girlfriend and gives her an enthusiastic kiss on the mouth. Laura tangled her fingers in Lydia’s hair, kissing her girlfriend slowly and deeply. By the time she pulled away, Lydia was panting slightly.

“You know,” Lydia said, attempting to save face, “the whole concept of a six month  _ anni _ -versary is a contradictory. Anniversary literally means year.”

“Hey,” Laura says softly. “We’ve got to seize the moment, right? You want some cheese?”

“Oh, I think I have something else in mind,” Lydia says, grinning.

“I have some stuff to make dinner inside the cabin if you—” Laura begins. She’s cut off when Lydia shoves her into the lake. “Hey!” she sputters. “Rude! You’re lucky I didn’t have my phone in my pocket!”

Lydia just laughs. “Watch out!” she cries, and jumps into the water.

“You witch,” Laura complains when Lydia resurfaces. Her teeth are already chattering—the water is chilly this time of year. “I brought my swimsuit for a reason.”

“Oh?” Lydia says, raising one eyebrow. “I thought we might try...skinny-dipping.” She begins to unbutton her blouse, which is plastered to her skin.

“I thought you were too old to have sex outdoors,” Laura points out.

“Well, since we’re seizing the moment,” Lydia says, “I guess I can make an exception.” When they kiss, Laura feels the warmth from her head to her toes.

  
  
  



End file.
